The Library of the Dead by T. L. Huchu

Author:T. L. Huchu [Huchu, T. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781529039481
Google: 7S7-DwAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1250767768
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 2021-02-04T00:00:00+00:00

XXIV

I remember Gramps by the scent of gin on his breath whenever he carried me. The way his stubble was rough against my face. There was mischief in his blue eyes, a constant twinkle, like he was in on a joke no one else knew about. His hair was thinning, and you could see his scalp as well as you can see the skin under the hairs on your arm. On cold days, I remember him sitting down with a hot toddy in front of the radio talking about Hibs. That’s why I love the green shirts even though I’m on the wrong side of the city.

Used to take me to Easter Road on match days, too. I remember being swept up in the crowds, sitting on his shoulders as we made our way to the stadium, surrounded by hats, banners and scarves. Never mind the fact we lost more often than we won, we sat in the stands cheering, jeering and cursing our lungs out. When we couldn’t go to the games, he refused to watch on telly, preferring to tune in on the wireless.

‘Your heid’s always gonna give you a better picture than any screen,’ he’d say.

When the commentator was speaking, the images always got jumbled up in my mind, especially for away games. The stadium always looked like Easter Road to me regardless, bare earth where the grass had worn away in the six-yard box at either end. But I’d sit there at Gramps’s feet, him leaning over to hear better even though the volume was maxed. I could see the strips in my mind, but seldom the faces of the players. Sometimes I celebrated the wrong goals and he’d laugh and call me a traitor.

Gramps wasn’t my real granddad, though. Not biologically anyway. My real ones died before I was even born.

The thing about the dead is you can never bring them back. Doesn’t matter how much you love them. Never mind how much money they had or what good they did in this world. Doesn’t matter how much you pray or which god you turn to. It’s set in stone. One shot is all any of us ever get, and I’ve seen enough regrets from beyond to know how true that is. My real granddads went to where the grass is long, but at least we had Gramps.

Gran says she met Gramps in a pub on Rose Street. Claims there wasn’t anything romantic about it, especially since all he talked about on the day was urban mining, which was his thing. ‘Do you know there’s gold in sewage?’ he said, by way of an opening line. That was epic, in my opinion. I picture them sat on a bench in the quiet corner of a pub, some place with a low ceiling and massive wood beams. A few punters on stools near the bar, with the place virtually dead.

That’s how love happens.

Sometimes I think Gran is a lonely swan. She sits in the caravan all day long.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.